Syncope (The Meet and Greet Blues)
by drewbug
Summary: 'Do I, uh...' He cringes. 'Do I want to know why I'm naked'


**Syncope (The Meet and Greet Blues)**

 **Nicole Clevenger (October 2016)**

 **Notes:** This is intended as the third part of my FiveThings Syncope stories, and though I'm still not thrilled with it, it's been finished for over a week and I'm beyond tired of looking at it. Hopefully I'm being overcritical, and you'll find more joy with this one than I have. (And no, you didn't miss part one. It hasn't been written yet.) There are nods in this to both part two and to my fic "Delirious" – because apparently I'm getting self-referential in my old age – but neither needs to be read in order to understand what little is happening here. If you're familiar with my writing, you know what to expect. It's that kind of thing.

Pre-series, but only just. Netflix/Marvel canon. I make no money, because they don't belong to me.

* * *

Foggy pulls the heavy door open, walks into a wall of noise. The place is too big – too clean, too trendy, too filled with tinkling jazz and women in expensive-looking jewelry – and he misses Josie's already. He scans the buzzing room for Matt. Spots him almost immediately, standing alone at one end of the long bar.

He weaves his way through the mingling bodies, a lot of the faces already recognizable. Three weeks into the job, he's still working on some of the names. He stops to socialize with a couple of people, exchanging the usual HowWasYourWeekendCanYouBelieveItsOnlyMonday pleasantries. Rachel – Rebecca? – introduces him to her boyfriend.

He detaches himself from their small talk when he finds the chance, plunging back in to wade through the crowd. Between a few briefly parted heads Foggy catches a glimpse of Matt chatting with Amanda, one of the hot receptionists from upstairs. He thinks about making another pass around the room before going over there and interrupting. But when he squeezes past another group, he sees that she's already walking away.

Matt's got an uncomfortable smile pasted on his lips and a tall glass – water, Foggy assumes, because he's never known Matt to drink straight vodka through a straw – resting on the bar by his elbow. As he gets closer he notes the rigid set to Matt's shoulders, the awkward way half his weight rests against the barstool beside him like he can't quite decide whether he wants to sit or stand. He's dressed in what's probably the suit he wore to work, though this too is an assumption because Foggy hadn't seen him today. Hasn't seen him since Friday, actually.

Foggy greets a few more coworkers, closes the last of the distance. "Did you miss me?" he asks Matt, sliding onto the empty barstool beside him.

"I officially hate office parties," Matt responds in a low voice, through that same fake smile.

"Maybe they get better?" Foggy looks for the bartender, finds him at the other end of the bar deep in conversation. "You seemed to be making friends."

A dismissive shake of his head. "She was just being polite." He turns away to cough into his sleeve. It's a disturbingly thick sound, even with all of this ambient noise.

Foggy frowns, brushes his hair out of his eyes. "That's new and impressively awful." Matt's got no comment. "How long's _that_ been going on?"

Matt shrugs a shoulder, picks up his glass and ignores the straw to gulp down most of the water. He finally commits to fully sitting on the stool. "How was the wedding?" he asks.

It's an obvious diversion, but Foggy decides to play along. "Great. A lot of people asked about you. Rather intently, actually, like they were surprised you weren't there. I think I may be giving my family mixed signals."

Matt's laugh is a huff of air. He's not wearing a tie, the buttons at his collar undone. When he moves his head, the artfully-spaced lighting above them picks out a glint of moisture at his hairline, his upper lip.

Foggy hasn't even talked to him today, trying to catch up after leaving early Friday for his weekend vacation. There'd only been that message telling him Matt was running late, that they'd meet here. It had been oddly terse, something he's only remembering now. At the time, he'd just figured Matt was busy.

He launches obligingly into an exaggerated tale of a drunk uncle and his profound lack of dancing skills; Matt leans an arm on the bar and pretends to be interested. At some point the bartender comes by and refills the water glass, gets Foggy a beer. Foggy makes an effort to keep his tone light and the story entertaining. Matt's only contribution to the conversation is the occasional punctuation of that deep cough.

He's slowly listing toward the bar, more of his weight on the lacquered surface with every minute that passes. Foggy throws in a few mentions of family members he's met, but he's pretty sure Matt's not listening. Since there's no chance of catching him staring off into space, he's learned to recognize other cues that Matt's zoning out; he's seeing it now in the softening of his jaw line, the vague droop of his shoulders.

"Then things got _crazy_ ," Foggy tries. "A bunch of clowns jumped out of the bushes and started making these obscene balloon animals..." No response. He bumps Matt's shoe with his own. "I knew you weren't paying attention."

Matt twitches, swipes at his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Huh? Sorry." He drinks more water, lowering the glass back to the bar with a pantomime cautiousness. "Tell me again?"

"It was barely interesting the first time. You didn't miss anything important." His beer's half gone; he debates flagging the bartender down for another while the guy's still at this end of the bar. Might be the only chance he gets.

Matt slides his fingers up under his glasses to rub at an eye. "Sorry," he repeats. "I, uh… I don't feel very well."

Foggy snorts, takes a drink. "Amazingly, I picked up on that. What're you even doing here?"

Matt sucks in a breath to say something, starts coughing like he might never stop. It's an ugly wet noise, exhausting simply to listen to. Foggy finds himself on his feet – a useless hand hovering over his friend's back and an eye out for any nearby gawkers – but there's little that he can do besides cringe and wait. The bartender's shooting them dubious glances, but Foggy waves him off. He's trying hard to appear less concerned than he feels.

After what seems like forever, the coughing tapers into a rhythm of ragged breathing. Both of Matt's hands curl around the carved edge of the bar; his head hangs low, and he looks barely upright. "Ugh. Think… think I need to sit down," he mumbles. If Foggy were any farther away, he wouldn't have heard it.

His stomach lurches. "Bad news, buddy. You are sitting down." He grabs the glass, nudging it against the back of Matt's clenched fingers. "Drink some water."

Matt shakes his bowed head, his lips a thin line; clearly unbalanced, he starts to tilt dangerously. Foggy grabs his arm to prevent him from slipping off the stool.

"Geez. You're really warm." Like really, _really_ warm. Foggy looks over his shoulder, eyeing the route he came in; it stretches a ridiculous distance. And he's not thrilled with the thought of trying to drag Matt through all those people.

"M'okay. Jus'need some air…"

"My plan exactly. I'm already working on it." He moves the glass back into easy reach. "Seriously, have some water. Please. I've got you." He squeezes Matt's bicep to make sure the point is getting through to his friend's fevered brain. "I'm not going to let you fall."

This time Matt's murmur is inaudible; facing his profile like this, Foggy can see that he's got his eyes closed behind his glasses. But his right hand unlocks its grip on the wood, shifts a few clumsy inches to find the water. The beads of condensation burst and leak over his fingers as he brushes against the side, searching for the straw.

Foggy continues his survey of the room, spots a fire exit hopefully leading to an alley. Thankfully, much closer to them than the front door. He relays this information to Matt, but he can't tell if it's really sinking in. "Whenever you're ready," he adds.

The heavy bottom of the water glass thunks unevenly against the bar as Matt misjudges the angle to set it back down. He slides off the stool and stumbles into Foggy; Foggy keeps a hand on him, grabs the cane. He resists the urge to simply sling Matt's arm over his shoulder. "So… what do you think?"

"Think s'too hot in here. Loud."

"Agreed." The bartender's still watching them warily; Foggy tips his head toward the fire door in an attempt to communicate that they're leaving. Hoping maybe to find out ahead of time if he's about to set off some kind of alarm. The guy shrugs, arms folded over his chest. It tells him nothing. "But I meant more like can you walk?"

"… course I can walk," Matt grumbles toward the floor. He takes a wobbly step away from Foggy as if to prove this; Foggy moves with him, unwilling to let go.

Their shuffling path takes them past the restrooms, and as they get closer Foggy spots a familiar face coming out. Jamie, from Accounting; she's obviously moving to intercept them. "Heads up," he warns Matt. "We're about to have company. Jamie."

"…'ch one's Jamie?" Matt slurs, his eyes still closed. Heat seeps through his clothes.

"The one with the really high voice." He twists his mouth into a friendly grin just as she reaches them.

"Tell me you guys aren't leaving already!" she chirps, forcing their progress to a jerky stop.

Matt sways like a drunk beside him. His lopsided try for a smile looks vague and drugged. "Nope," Foggy lies. "Just going somewhere quieter to talk for a second. This place is crazy loud."

Her eyes flick over Matt, and Foggy wonders what she sees. "Well come find me when you're done. I'll buy a round. I never get to talk to you two!"

He feels Matt's flinch when her voice darts up at the end. "Definitely," Foggy assures her. "We'll find you."

"You'd better…"

Matt squashes a cough between clamped lips. "Let's get out of here," Foggy says, as soon as he thinks she's out of earshot. He gets no argument.

They make it to the exit without running into anybody else, and as far as he can tell they attract no attention with their departure. As long as there's no alarm on this door, that is. Foggy takes a breath, wincing as he pushes the metal bar. It opens without fanfare, and they tumble out into the dark night.

The door closes behind them with a solid click, instantly cutting off the persistent hum from inside. When the cool air triggers another coughing fit, the sound bounces harshly off the silent alley walls. Foggy sees a milk crate surrounded by cigarette butts sitting a few feet from the door. He steers Matt toward it.

Matt offers no resistance, looks like he's struggling just to breathe. "Sit," Foggy tells him. "There's a crate by your feet."

He finds it with the toe of a shoe, uses the wall and Foggy's support to lower himself carefully down. He slumps there, breathing shallowly. Occasionally his shoulders shake with a suppressed cough. Foggy doesn't know what he's supposed to do next; Matt doesn't seem to be in a hurry to offer any suggestions.

"Why are you even at this stupid thing?" Foggy asks again. "Or work today? There's no way you weren't feeling crappy when you woke up this morning."

The light above the door casts a bright circle; Matt sits just outside of it. His voice floats from the shadows. "Can't…" He tries to clear his throat. "Can't call out sick three weeks into a new job."

"Sure you can. Especially if you're actually sick." An ambulance screams by on the street, briefly splashing one end of the alley red. "And say you can't. That still doesn't explain why you thought you needed to be _here_."

"It's for us." It sounds like a shrug. Not the whole truth.

"Us and like six other new hires. And trust me, these people do not look like they need an excuse for a cocktail hour. I bet they have these all the time."

"Our first one."

He's not getting it. "And?" There's a long pause, and he starts thinking Matt's not going to answer. Foggy wishes he could see his face.

"Some of us have to make more of an effort to fit in, Fog," Matt finally says. It's a weary sigh.

Foggy blinks. He's never known anyone to meet Matt and not instantly like him. And who cares what these people think anyway? He's about to tell Matt this when the door he's standing by suddenly flies open to crash against the wall.

It misses him by an inch, completely derailing his line of thought. He jumps away from the motion, the rush of air, in a pointless belated reflex; the couple coming out doesn't notice. They don't even look over as they stagger off down the alley, trailing a cloud of nonsensical intoxicated conversation.

"Have a good night," Foggy mutters sarcastically at the back of their heads. His heart's racing.

"Foggy? You okay?"

He turns to find Matt standing, tense and concerned, balancing himself with a hand on the brick wall. "Yep. Missed me by a mile," Foggy lies. He gives his arms a little shake, trying to rid himself of the tingling excess adrenaline. "No big deal."

Matt deflates, drops his hand to lean a shoulder against the wall instead. He wraps his arms around his torso. Foggy can see more of him now, and he's pretty sure Matt's shivering.

"Good. That's good," Matt mumbles toward the pavement. "We should, uh… we should go back in."

"Why? You made an appearance. Mission accomplished. Let's get a cab and go home."

Matt frowns, but he doesn't say anything. He curls further in on himself, giving the distinct impression that the wall might be the only thing holding him up.

But it looks like he's considering it. So Foggy presses on. "Trust me, my friend, it's not going to end well if you go back in there. They're going to think you're a sloppy drunk when you keel over. Or at least know exactly who to blame when those germs of yours start spreading around the office."

Matt's lungs underscore this with more coughing. "Might have a point," he croaks when he can catch his breath.

" _I_ thought so." Though Foggy's a little surprised he's giving in so easily. A sure sign that he feels even worse than he looks. "I usually do."

"You should stay. Make new friends." Another futile attempt to clear his throat; he scowls, swallows.

"I'd rather be sure that my _best_ friend makes it home."

"I'll make it. Stay. Have fun." It'd be more convincing if he looked like he was able to stand up straight, if his voice didn't sound like he was gargling gravel. From the street comes a screech of tires, an angry horn; Matt lifts his head. Foggy glances that way, but he can't see anything from here.

"Without you? How much fun am I going to have? And who does these things on a Monday, anyway? I'm beginning to have some serious concerns about this firm." Nothing. "Matt?"

"Stray cat."

"What?"

"Huh?" Matt turns his way, clearly confused.

Foggy's hair drifts into his eyes when he shakes his head. "Nevermind. Let's get out of here. Any minute, Jamie's going to come looking for us. I just know it. It's like my Spidey sense is tingling."

"…'nother good point. You're on a roll." He shoves off of the wall with his elbow, using the momentum to pivot around toward the other end of the alley. It's a motion with none of the intended fluidity; his feet get tangled, and his first few steps are stumbled. "Whoa…"

An outflung hand finds the wall; Foggy grabs his arm on the other side. Matt feels even warmer against the contrast of the cold night air, the heat radiating off of him. Definitely shivering. "Or we could just hang out here a little longer," Foggy says.

"M'okay. Kinda dizzy… s'going away."

"Excellent. How about sitting back down until it actually _does_?" He gives Matt's arm a tug, wanting to guide him back to the milk crate.

Matt shakes his head, the shadows along his jaw shifting as the muscles jump underneath. "No, let's go. M'good." The stabilizing hand on the wall drops to his side.

"Are you sure?" Foggy certainly has his doubts. "Because –"

"I'm tired, Fog," he admits softly to the empty alley. "I want to go home."

"Then that's exactly what we will do. Here." He presses the cane he's been holding into Matt's hand. "Ready?"

Matt switches the cane to his other hand, curls his fingers around Foggy's elbow. "Yeah. Let's go." He turns his head to smother a cough in his sleeve.

They get to the street at the end of the alley, but it's emptier than he'd expected. He decides they'll have better luck if they walk another block over. A look at Matt under the streetlamp tells him they're not going far; Foggy relays the first part of all this but not the second. Matt just grunts, hunched and swaying.

But he's the one who starts them off, determinedly putting one foot in front of the other and leaving Foggy no choice but to follow. There's not a lot of traffic out here – a glance at his watch says eight-thirty, everyone staying in already in and those out still out – and Foggy misses the noise. He'd welcome something to drown out the painful wheezing coming from his friend beside him. They pass a tattoo parlor, the new Thai place Foggy's been meaning to try. He steers Matt around the end of the line that stretches out of the restaurant door.

By the end of the long block, Matt's steps are getting more erratic. The grip on Foggy's elbow has shifted to an arm hooked loosely through his, and Matt's shoulder keeps bumping into him. When Matt trips over nothing – and Foggy's sure it's nothing, because he's been obsessively scanning the sidewalk for obstacles – the particularly jarring impact almost knocks Foggy into a parked car. He pulls them to a stop short of the corner, unsure about dragging Matt any further. "Still with me, Murdock?"

"Right here," he affirms, though it's a murmur directed toward the sidewalk.

Foggy glances up and down the street, doesn't see anything that resembles a cab. "Can you do another block?"

"Whatever. S'good." He's leaning more of his weight against Foggy with every minute they stand here.

"I think I'd be more convinced if you were actually forming entire sentences."

Matt's head tips sideways until his temple rests on Foggy's shoulder. "How was the wedding?"

"And I was wrong," Foggy says. He spreads his feet a little wider to better brace them. A couple of teenagers walk by, one of them openly staring; Foggy looks back at him, unblinking. The kid turns away. "We already did that part," he tells Matt.

He spots a lighted triangle on the roof of an approaching vehicle, holds up his free arm to flag it down. It stops for another fare before crossing through the intersection. "I think we should go another block," Foggy says.

"Sure." Matt lifts his head, but doesn't really straighten. They stagger to the corner like the losers in a three-legged race.

Foggy hits the button for the crosswalk, and they wait for the light to change. A thumping bass line leaks out from the club across the street as its door opens and closes. It's too early for there to be much of a crowd, but a few people loiter around. He sees somebody he knows ducking inside.

The walk signal beeps as their light goes green, but Matt's arm cinches around his, pulling him back before he can step off the curb. A second later a bicyclist whizzes by, rounding the corner in a blur. Foggy blows out a startled breath.

"Thanks." He looks both ways several times; they cross with a few other people just to be safe. "I don't get it. Am I invisible tonight or something?"

"Asking… wrong guy," Matt rasps beside him.

The next block has wooden scaffolding covering the middle third, a building reconstruction that stretches an umbrella over the sidewalk. No way a cab driver's going to see them here. He debates going back. Decides to keep heading forward. It's a choice made moot when Matt's attempt to suppress a cough tumbles into series of them, doubling him over. Foggy props him up against a plywood wall plastered with flyers, and the few other pedestrians give them as wide a berth as they can in the narrowed space.

"I'm sorry, man. I know this sucks," he sympathizes over Matt's panted breaths.

Matt's reply is unintelligible. But Foggy's positive he says something about watermelons.

"Awesome," he responds unhappily. "Come on, let's go." He ducks under Matt's arm, holding it in place across his shoulders. They peel away from the wall, Foggy supporting most of Matt's weight. Start off again down the street.

He sees a cab just as they clear the last of the scaffolding; Matt groans a protest as he's jostled by Foggy's flailing effort to get the driver's attention. The car makes a u-turn, pulls up to the sidewalk ahead of them. "Good news. I think we've got a ride."

"Won' be cold f'you leave 'em out," Matt slurs, his head lolling between his shoulders.

The driver looks hesitant as Foggy pulls open the back door, watching them in the rearview mirror as he angles Matt inside. Foggy forces a smile, charming and nonthreatening, but the guy doesn't look in any way comforted.

"He don't look so good. He ain't gonna puke back there, is he?"

"Nope. No puking," Foggy promises, though he can only hope this is true. He didn't even know Matt was sick a couple of hours ago. He slides in beside his friend, settles into the seat; Matt's a lump crumpled against the other door.

"Better not," the driver grumbles, the reflection of his eyes flicking that way one more time. Foggy has too many responses for this, decides to keep his mouth shut. He gives him Matt's address, and the cab merges into the sparse traffic.

Matt's quiet for most of the ride, but the driver seems to be watching him more than he's watching the road. Every time he coughs, the guy inches the radio up a little further and cracks his window a little more. He looks like he's sure that Matt's got some kind of plague; Foggy can't swear that he doesn't. He keeps his focus on the view out of the windshield, apparently the only one concerned about them crashing.

"Stop sign. Hey, stop sign!" Foggy warns, just as the driver slams on the brakes. He throws an arm across Matt's chest to keep him from going face-first into the back of the front seat. Matt blinks drowsily behind his glasses as the cab sets again into motion.

He tips away from the door to slump against Foggy instead. He's beyond warm, and Foggy really wishes he had a bottle of water.

A beat later, Matt lifts his head. "Fog?" A rumbling effort to clear his throat. "… we going somewhere?"

Foggy's heart stutters, but he keeps his voice even. "Home. Be there before you know it." His eyes meet the driver's in the mirror. "If, you know, this guy pays attention to what he's doing and doesn't get us killed." The eyes turn back to the road.

Matt drops his head back onto Foggy's shoulder. "Sick," he mumbles. "Tumor… messing with blood flow. Should be in a hospital."

Foggy twists his neck to get a look at him. All he can see is Matt's hair at this angle. "What are you talking about?"

"Somebody's sick. Probably cancer."

"What?" Foggy repeats, wondering where this is coming from. Even as a fevered delusion, it seems a bit random.

And the cab is definitely picking up speed. "Driver," Matt clarifies, not helping.

"He's a little out of it," Foggy offers apologetically to the eyes in the mirror. "Not making sense. Just ignore him. You, um, you see that red light, right?"

The driver cranks up the radio; they make it back to Matt's apartment in record time. He barely lets the door close behind them before driving away. Two seconds later, Foggy realizes that neither of them has Matt's cane. "Crap."

Matt rocks on his heels; Foggy grabs an arm to steady him. "What?"

"Pretty sure your cane's still in the back of that cab."

Matt shrugs, drags a hand through his hair. The damp strands flop over his fingers. "Doesn't matter."

Nothing they can do about it anyway. No way that guy's going to play Good Samaritan and return it tonight. "Well I hope you still have another one lying around. I have a feeling you might feel differently in the morning."

"Don' need it," he slurs.

"Okay," Foggy agrees, not seeing the point in arguing. He just wants to get Matt inside. They lurch their way to the front steps. "Stairs," Foggy tells him. "Twelve of them."

"I know." It's petulant, a two year old badly in need of a nap. Foggy rolls his eyes.

Matt's fighting for breath when they've climbed all twelve, wavering on his feet as Foggy punches in the code to open the building's main door. He's glad he's already memorized it, because he's not sure how easy it'd be to get the information out of Matt right now. They enter the vacant foyer and he lets the door swing shut behind them. He aims them toward the elevator.

The car is empty when it arrives. "Why s'it so hot?" Matt asks, as Foggy directs him into it. "You hot?"

"Yes," Foggy answers honestly; Matt's glued to his side again, barely standing on his own. He presses the button for the top floor as the door's sliding closed. Matt stumbles a step forward when the elevator jolts into motion, and Foggy slings an arm around his waist to keep him falling, from going too far.

Matt murmurs something incomprehensible to his shoes. Laughs.

The elevator stops with a jerk and a ding, and the door opens onto Matt's floor. His new apartment is all the way back in the corner, and at the moment it looks like a trek. Foggy hauls Matt's arm back over his shoulders; Matt squirms, but doesn't quite pull away.

"S'hot," he whines. "Why s'it so hot?"

"Because your body's trying to tell you something, dude. Like that you're too sick to not be in bed." The elevator door's going to close on them if they don't move. He imagines them riding up and down all night like this, having this same conversation. "Fortunately for you, your bed is nearby. But you have to work with me a little longer." The door starts to move in its track; he swings a hand up to trigger the sensors to stop it. Matt flinches when the alarm buzzer goes off. "Come on, Murdock. Move your feet."

He does and they exit the elevator, teeter their way slowly to Matt's door. They're both sweating by the time they get there, and Foggy's lower back is beginning to ache from this strange half-stooped position. He's got a spare key on the ring in his pocket, but it's on the side that Matt's crushed against. Untangling himself, he rests his friend's weight against the wall instead so that he can get at it.

Foggy unlocks the door; Matt's hand shoots out to stop him before he can reach for the knob. "Wait," he growls, shoving his way between Foggy and the door with an uncharacteristic abruptness. He's clearly on alert over something. And that makes Foggy very nervous.

He glances around the hallway, listens hard. But he can't figure out what Matt's picking up on. "What? I don—"

"Shhh…"

Matt opens the door cautiously, Foggy tensed behind him as he waits for who-knows-what to jump out at them. Nothing does. He takes a couple of steps inside, trailing a hand along the entryway wall. Comes to a wobbly halt, framed by the light spilling in from the hall.

"Hey," he says, throwing a goofy grin back over his shoulder. "S'my apartment." He wanders further into the darkness.

So… apparently not in any immediate peril after all then?

Foggy follows him in, still feeling a little on edge. He reaches over to turn on the desk lamp waiting on the side table before he closes the door; it's an uninteresting mass-produced little thing, something Foggy'd bought shortly after Matt had moved in here. After the first night he'd come over to discover the disorienting blackness of Matt's entryway. After the bruises that stupid side table had left on his leg.

His fingers are on the switch when he hears Matt crash into the wall. There's a hiss from the fabric of his suit as he slides down. A thud when he hits the floor at the bottom.

"Matt?" He flicks the light on, tries to angle the feeble beam in that direction. Matt's a heap of shadows. "No. No no no no. Tell me we're not doing this again."

Matt doesn't answer.

Foggy rounds the corner of the table, drops to his knees in front of Matt's crumpled form. He's wedged against the base of the wall, mostly on his side; he's lost his glasses. Foggy accidently finds them when he shifts and his knee comes down on a metal earpiece. He picks them up, tosses them onto the table. "Matt? Come on, Matt… Talk to me, buddy."

The front door's still open; he could yell for help. His phone's in his pocket. He could call 911. Maybe, if Matt's not so warm, he'll come around faster. With this thought Foggy starts to undo a few more of the buttons on his shirt, trying to figure out the easiest way to get his suit jacket off in this position.

A hand comes up to weakly bat him away. "… r'you doing?"

Foggy releases a relieved breath he didn't know he was holding. He sits back on his heels. "Trying to get you out of your clothes."

"Mm… might've missed something." Matt blinks his eyes open; they dart around as he tries to determine where they are, what's happening. His fingers pat the lacquered wood boards he's lying on. "Why… why're we on the floor?"

"Because sometimes you're kind of an idiot."

"Oh."

He exhales a heavy breath, starts to push himself up. "Sure that's a good idea?" Foggy asks, watching him awkwardly wriggle up the wall into an off-kilter sitting position.

"On my keys," he explains, fishing them out of his pocket. There's only a couple, but they clink together when they hit the floor beside him. He brings his arm up to cough against the sleeve. Frowns, tilting his head. "My door open?"

Foggy looks out into the rectangle of empty hallway. It's bright out there compared to in here. "Yeah. I was busy." Mostly sure that Matt's relatively okay, he gets up to close it.

His own keys are still hanging from the lock; he grabs them, pulls the door shut. The desk lamp's nearly useless, its light not even stretching to the end of the entryway. The room beyond is lit in swatches by that ridiculous giant billboard, but Foggy still wishes he had a flashlight.

It's bright enough, though, to highlight Matt's unsteadiness as he climbs to his feet. Foggy hurries back to his side, gets a supporting hold on his elbow. "Bed or the couch?" he asks, waiting for Matt to find his balance.

"Shower." He takes a few tentative steps forward, sliding a hand along the wall as he moves.

Foggy sticks to his side. "You sure?" He's not even comfortable with the idea of Matt walking that far on his own. "Maybe –"

"Shower," Matt repeats, reclaiming his arm from Foggy's grip. They've reached the end of the entryway wall; Matt takes a breath, braves a shaky step out into the vast openness of his living room. "Go home. Talk to you in the morning."

"No, you won't," Foggy says. "Because I'll be at work without you." Matt scowls, coughs. He rubs at his sternum with the heel of his hand. "But I thought I'd hang around for a bit. See what's in your refrigerator. Are you hungry?"

"No." He shuffles his way across the room, pulling off his suit jacket as he goes. Foggy follows along. "Just gonna shower and go to bed."

"Have you eaten _anything_ today?"

"What's today?"

"Sadly, still Monday."

Matt pauses, nonplussed. He looks like he truly doesn't know. "Maybe?"

The bedroom's illuminated only by the light that trickles in from the street through the windows. Matt drops his jacket on the end of the bed. "That sounds like a no," Foggy says, still trailing him. "What do you want?"

"Want a shower." He kicks off his shoes. "Go home."

"I'm hurt. I haven't been around all weekend, and you're already a hurry to get rid of me?"

Matt wavers in the bathroom doorway, stops and leans a steadying arm against the frame. "Just don't want you to shower with me." He drops his head onto his forearm. "How was… how was the wedding?"

"Yep. Definitely staying."

"Huh?" Matt lifts his head. Lowers his arm with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Sure," he mumbles vaguely. "Do whatever you want." He enters the dark bathroom, shutting the door behind himself.

Foggy's left alone in Matt's bedroom, staring at the shadowy shape of the closed door. A moment later the shower comes on with a squeal and a rush of water. He's hesitant to leave, convinced that any second Matt's going to collapse in there. For a few minutes he perches on the edge of Matt's bed.

Nothing happens. And it feels weird to sit here in the dark listening to his friend shower.

So he gets up, walks back into the living room. He turns on the one lone floor lamp – another concession to Foggy's near-constant presence, something he'd insisted on after a couple of nights with only that billboard to see by – remembers Matt's keys and goes to pick them up before they get stepped on. He chucks them onto the table by the glasses. Switches off the pointless desk lamp.

There's built-in lighting over the kitchen counter; he flips those on, opens the refrigerator door. It doesn't look like Matt's been shopping in a while. Foggy grabs a tupperware container, pops the lid to look inside. Left-over pasta, and it smells delicious. But he seals it up, puts it back. He doubts Matt's going to feel like cooking, and he doesn't want to deprive him of any easy meals.

It looks like there's stuff for sandwiches, assuming there's any bread. When he finds a third of a loaf in the cabinet, the decision's made. Foggy gathers up the things he needs from the fridge. He'll make Matt one too, regardless of what he'd said. Maybe he'll change his mind after his shower.

The sandwiches are a work of culinary art, and he bites into one as soon as he's finished. _Perfect_. Foggy takes another bite, putting things away as he chews. A look at his watch tells him it's almost ten.

He can't remember when they got back to the apartment, but it's starting to feel like Matt should be out of the shower by now. He eats a bit more of the sandwich, watching the dark bedroom doorway. There's no sign of anybody moving around in there. He thinks the shower's still on, but it's hard to tell from here with the way that billboard buzzes.

He leaves the food on the counter, returns to the bedroom. The water's still running, the door still closed. Foggy crosses to it and knocks. "Matt? Okay in there?"

When there's no response, he tries to tell himself that Matt probably just didn't hear him. When he knocks harder and gets nothing a second time, his stomach starts churning anxiously.

The doorknob turns under his hand, and he cracks the door open into blackness. "Matt? Sorry, man, I just, uh…" The cloud of steam he anticipates isn't here; the room feels chilled, breezy.

Foggy flips the light switch. He drags his eyes up from the floor – this whole thing strangely uncomfortable, despite how long he lived with the guy – and freezes. There's no silhouette of anybody standing on the other side of the frosted glass. He's across the room in three steps to yank open the shower door, any awkwardness instantly forgotten.

He expects to see Matt sprawled unconscious on the floor; instead Foggy finds him sitting in a shivering ball, his forehead on knees drawn tightly up to his chest. It'd be more of a relief if he'd even twitched at the sudden intrusion. If he was responding to the sound of his name. The water's streaming down ice cold, the window wide open.

Foggy reaches in to shut the faucet off, completely drenching his sleeve up to the elbow. He grabs the towel hanging off the bar on the wall. He has to climb into the shower stall to get the towel around his friend; he's grateful Matt doesn't have an old claw-footed tub like he's got. The leverage will be better to try and lift him out of here.

Because that's what he should do, right? Get him out of here, get him into bed?

Foggy has no idea.

Matt stirs as Foggy wraps the towel over his shoulders. "Fog? Y'doing here?" He languidly raises his head. "… we in the shower?"

"We're getting _out_ of the shower," Foggy corrects, privately congratulating himself on how calm it sounds. "Just as soon as you think you can stand up without falling over."

Matt seems to consider this. "Sure," he says. "I can do that." His forehead drops back onto his knees.

Foggy's legs are already beginning to cramp in this crouched position. The beads of moisture clinging to the tile wall soak into his suit where he leans against it. "For some reason, I don't believe you."

Matt's arms tighten around his bent legs; his voice is muffled. "M'cold."

"I bet." In the nearness of the space, Foggy feels like he's talking way too loud. "We can totally try to fix that, but you have to be able to get up first. Your call."

He raises his head just high enough to give a heavy nod. Foggy doesn't exactly trust this hazy optimism, but Matt starts moving and it's either move with him or sit in solitude on the floor of his shower. The towel slips off of his shoulders as he clumsily clambers up the tile; Foggy hooks it with his shoe, lifts it with a foot to where he can reach it. He hands it back to Matt who wraps it absently around his waist, holding it together with a loose grasp over his hipbone as he feels his way out of the shower.

He stops to rest against the wall on the other side of the glass door, breathing unevenly. Effectively trapping Foggy inside the damp shower stall. Foggy doesn't say anything, doesn't want to rush him. Matt coughs repeatedly, makes a face. He shoves himself off the wall to stagger over and spit something into the sink.

"Yuck." He braces himself with a one-armed grip on the counter.

Foggy's finally able to step out into the bathroom. Somehow his sock's gotten wet, and it squelches under his toes. He thinks it might be time to get some new shoes.

Matt shifts his weight onto a hip, brings his hand up to massage the skin between his eyebrows. "Tell me again why you're in my shower with your shoes on?" His eyes are closed, pinched lines at their corners. Like he's concentrating, working to stay focused. Or is afraid to hear the answer.

"Well now I want to hear your guesses first."

Matt clears his throat, leans over the sink and spits out more crap. "Sorry." He flicks the water on and off, rinsing it away. His legs are visibly trembling.

"But maybe you can tell me later," Foggy amends. Matt blinks lethargically in his general direction, looking as if he's already lost track of what they're talking about. Foggy sighs. "Come on, Matthew. Bed."

He keeps a hand between Matt's bare shoulder blades as they inch their way across the bedroom, feeling better with the physical contact. Matt's skin is almost clammy now, but anything the shower might've done to help with his temperature doesn't seem to have done much for his muddled brain. He promises himself Matt just needs sleep.

"One thing's for sure," Foggy says, simply to fill the silence, "I'm never leaving town again. One weekend, and look what happens."

"S'right…" Matt bumps the mattress with a knee, bends the find the sheets with the hand not holding the towel. He tumbles into the bed. "How was the wedding?"

"I might cry if you ask me that again. Just so you know." He's only half kidding.

If this registers, Matt doesn't respond. He wriggles his way under the silk sheets, a rogue slice of light from the streetlamp outside sneaking in at an angle to slash across his profile from his temple to his nose. Foggy's eyes are having trouble adjusting to the darkness after the brightness of the bathroom. The light's still on in there; it illuminates him from behind, casting a distorted version of him in shadow on the wall by the bed.

"I made you a sandwich," he remembers. "If you're hungry."

Matt groans. Buries his face in the sheets.

He has to lift his head when he starts coughing again, a brutal hacking that he tries to smother between an arm and the mattress. "Okay, right," Foggy says. "Water." He goes out to the kitchen to fill a glass, dogged by the racket every step of the way. When he gets back, Matt's in pretty much the exact same position. "I've got water," Foggy tells him when he doesn't move. He sits on the edge of Matt's bed.

Matt slowly uncoils, sits up. The sheet whispers down his chest to pool in his lap. He takes the water and drinks most of it without stopping, gasping when he finally breaks for air. Licking his lips, he finishes the glass.

"Thanks," he croaks, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He twists toward the nightstand, reaches to set the glass down. The sluggish motion doesn't look like it'll stretch the distance.

"I've got it," Foggy says, taking the it from him. "Anything else that you want?"

Matt runs a hand through his hair. "Do I, uh…" He cringes. "Do I want to know why I'm naked?"

Foggy pats Matt's bent knee through the sheets, forcing an amused tone that he doesn't feel. "I'll explain it to you when you're older. Or when I think there's a chance that you might actually retain the information."

Matt squirms, straightens his leg. "Seriously, Fog… grab me some pants?"

"Of course." He gets up and crosses to Matt's dresser, leaving the empty glass on top of it. Foggy digs around, comes up with a pair of soft grey sweats. He thinks they're grey, anyway. Difficult to be sure in the dark.

"Pants," he warns, tossing them onto Matt's legs. Matt finds the fabric with his fingers, drags it back under the sheets. Foggy's not watching him – he spots the towel fallen onto the floor, and stoops to snag it before it gets tripped over – but it sounds like it takes a lot of effort to get them on at that angle. He carries the wet towel into the bathroom to hang it up.

He takes the opportunity to snoop through Matt's medicine cabinet. As with the refrigerator, the contents are sparse. There isn't any aspirin for the fever, but there is a thermometer. Foggy grabs the glass off of the dresser, ducks back in to fill it up from the sink. He carries it and the thermometer out to the nightstand.

Matt's lying on his back staring blankly toward the ceiling, propped up by both of his pillows. It's probably the only way he feels like he can breathe. The strip of light from the window cuts across his bare chest. "Do I have any watermelon?" he asks, his dimly lit face screwed up into a confused frown.

"I don't think so." Foggy holds his watch up closer to the window so he can get a look at it. "I can see if I can find some, if you want. I was thinking about going out anyway. I know how you feel about cold medicine, but you might sleep better if you took some."

He tries to figure out where the hell he's going to find watermelon. He was just planning to walk to that liquor store down the street.

"Forget it," Matt rasps, rubbing at his chest with a palm. "Go home. Don't we have work in the morning?" He pauses, calculating. "It's not morning, is it? What time is… s'my phone?" His fingers grope through the sheets as he struggles to sit up.

"Morning's a long time away," Foggy assures him. '"And your phone's probably in the bathroom. I'll find it."

Matt sinks back into the pillows; Foggy retrieves the phone from the pile of clothes on the bathroom floor. When he walks back in with it, Matt's got his head turned toward the doorway to the living room, a furrowed expression on his face.

"Matt? Found your phone…"

His shoulder jumps, startled, like he's surprised Foggy's standing there. It's as alarming as anything else. "Huh?" He closes his eyes for longer than can be really called a blink. "Oh yeah." He stretches out a hand for the thing. "Need to set my alarm."

"Why?"

"What?" Matt motions for the phone with a twitch of his fingers. "Can I just –" He's rocked by another coughing fit that leaves him panting, slumped against the pillows.

Foggy sets the phone down on the nightstand. His wet sleeve clings annoyingly to the hair on his arm. "Trust me, you are not making it in to work tomorrow. I'm prepared to bet real money on it."

"Fog…"

"I'm checking my wallet right now. Fifty?" He doesn't move, other than to glance around the room to see what else he might be able to do. He can't think of anything.

Matt chokes on a laugh. "Don't believe you have fifty bucks in your wallet," he mutters, burrowing under the sheets. He pulls the comforter up to his chin, phone apparently forgotten.

"How would you know? I'm looking at it right now. Admiring this handsome picture of… wait, who's on the fifty?"

"How would I know?" Matt echoes, closing his eyes.

"Sleep for a while," Foggy says. "We'll figure it out later. You need anything?"

"Uh-uh." He swallows, winces. Foggy tries to remember if he saw any juice in the refrigerator. "You leaving?"

"Nope. Not for a while, anyway. Just shout if you want something; I'll be out in the other room. I'm working on molding your new couch to fit my personal precision curves."

"Mm," is Matt's only response. Foggy can't tell if he's even paying attention.

When he doesn't say anything else, Foggy wanders back out to the kitchen. He sees some orange juice in the fridge, but what's left in the bottle doesn't look like it'll fill a full glass. Maybe he should make a shopping list. He adds Matt's sandwich to his own plate and walks out to the living room, grabbing a graphic novel that he'd stashed between the thick Braille tomes on Matt's bookcase. He takes off his suit jacket and slings it over the arm of the couch, undoes the buttons at his cuffs to roll his shirt sleeves up to his elbows where the wet patch will be less irritating. Loses his shoes and damp socks. More comfortable now, he settles onto the cushions.

The sandwiches are excellent, but it's difficult to read the tiny text in the pale light coming from the floor lamp. With the shifting colors of that billboard painting the page. After squinting at it for nearly an hour, he gives up. Foggy carries the plate out to the kitchen counter, switches off the light there. It's not doing anybody any good anyway. He remembers to lock the front door.

He's tired; it's been a long day. Matt hasn't stopped coughing for ten minutes at a stretch, and he suspects it's going to be a restless night for both of them if he stays. He hasn't decided yet if he's going to. Maybe he'll give it another hour, decide then. Foggy sets his alarm for five, on the off-chance he actually falls asleep. That should give him enough time to go home, shower and change.

Matt's a lump under the covers when he crosses the dark space toward the waiting glow of the bathroom. He deals with his bladder, washes his hands. Kicks Matt's clothes into a smaller pile against the wall. He decides to leave the light on in here. Matt's not going to be bothered by it.

When he opens the door, Matt shifts on the bed. "M'up," Foggy thinks he hears, as Matt tries and fails to push himself into a sitting position. "Know we still have to train today."

"What're you talking about?" Foggy asks, walking over to sit on the bed. "You don't have to do anything right now. Least of all be up."

Sweat glistens on his skin where the light streaks across it. Matt scowls in profile, half of his face smashed into the pillow. "Not trying to get out of it," he protests.

Foggy has no clue who he thinks he's talking to, what this "training" is supposed to be. He doesn't remember hearing anything about it at work. "Hey, it's cool. No training today," he says anyway. "Totally cancelled." He reaches past Matt's head to grab the thermometer off the nightstand.

An arm darts out from under the sheets, fingers circling in a solid grip around Foggy's wrist. It accomplishes the same relative goal; from the heat spreading up his forearm, he can tell Matt's temperature is rising again.

He gives his arm a little twist, trying to free himself; Matt's hold clamps tighter. It's kind of starting to hurt. "Uh, Matt…?"

The grip on Foggy's arm instantly releases. "Fog?" He can see Matt fighting through the fever to put the pieces together. "Where's…?" He doesn't finish the thought.

"Nobody here but us. You want some water?" Matt shakes his head, coughing weakly into the pillow. "Did you sleep at all? That offer for Nyquil is still open."

Another jerk of his head. "Gotta get up. Stick's gonna be pissed." He pulls the comforter up over his ears instead, his hair sticking out in clumps from the top.

This makes no sense to Foggy either. He wonders if the stick has anything to do with the watermelon Matt seems so inexplicably obsessed with tonight. "I have no idea what you're talking about, man, but – like I said – there's no place that you need to be but here."

Matt's response is inaudible under the bedding.

There's a cacophony of car horns outside; Foggy gets up to go look out the window. Whatever's going on must be up the block, because he can't see anything happening out there. "You want juice?" he asks. "There's a little bit of orange juice left."

"Wanna sleep," Matt whines, abruptly tugging the sheets away from his face, shoving them off of his shoulders. "S'too hot."

"So sleep. I'll leave you alone."

Matt rolls onto his back, kicks the blankets off of his legs. He scrubs roughly at his face with both palms. "No. No, can't," he murmurs behind his hands. "…be looking for me. Have to, uh… I should –"

"Relax. Anybody looking for you will have to go through me first," Foggy promises.

The bark of a humorless laugh. "S'not gonna listen to you."

He's not sure if it would make a difference if he knew who it was he was supposedly defending against. If this imaginary person even exists. "So I'll make them listen. It's kind of what I do."

Matt drops his hands; his eyes are wide and surprisingly worried. "No… Foggy, don't." He scrambles to get upright, almost knocks into Foggy in his clumsy haste to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "You can't," he wheezes, bent over his knees with a hand pressed flat to his chest. "S'okay. I'll get u–"

The sentence splinters into a spate of jagged coughing. It gradually fades into a particularly horrible gasping noise, and as Foggy stands uselessly above him he's slapped in the face with a flash recollection of that whole pneumonia thing a few years ago. He's done his best to block it out. A life experience he's pretty sure he didn't need; one he's positive he doesn't want to live through again.

"Ugh," Matt grunts, collapsing backward onto the mattress. He looks exhausted. Foggy doesn't feel far behind.

"You need to drink some of this water," Foggy tells him. "And take your temperature." He's already got a scary memory marker to measure it against. One hundred and four, they'd said at the hospital.

Matt's losing the battle to keep his eyes open, his lashes fluttering. His legs still hang off the side of the bed, his bare feet flat on the floor. "M'hot."

"Yeah. But I think we should get an actual number on that."

An ambiguous flip of Matt's hand. Eyes closed, he starts humming a congested-sounding version of Foreigner's "Hot Blooded."

"Hilarious," Foggy says flatly. A wide dopey smile creeps across Matt's face. "Seriously, Matt, sit up and drink something. I know you might not be able to tell through my ultra-cool exterior, but this is kinda starting to freak me out a little."

The smile instantly disappears; Matt pries open his eyes, licks his lips. He slowly rolls onto his side, gets himself propped up on a shaky elbow facing Foggy. "S'matter?" Obediently he holds out an unsteady hand for the water.

Foggy gives him the glass, but has definite doubts about letting it go. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything's awesome."

Matt gulps down most of the water, manages to get more of it in his mouth than down the front of himself. Foggy considers this to be a definite accomplishment. "Freaking out," he mumbles. His eyes slip closed.

Foggy takes the glass from Matt's hand. "Nevermind. This whole thing's just reminding me of unhappier times. Get some sleep."

Matt shakes his head; his eyes crack open. It looks like it takes a lot of work to keep them that way. "No, it's…" He fights to push himself more upright. "M'getting up. I'm, uh… time s'it?"

"Night time. Where are you going?"

"Y'don't want to be here, Fog. Gonna be mad I'm not ready."

"Who are you talking about? Who're you so afraid of?"

"M'not. Just…" Matt shoves himself up to sitting on the edge of the bed. Pauses there for minute trying to get his breathing even. "… get caught in the middle."

He launches himself to his feet, stands swaying. He looks like he's trying to get his bearings. His balance. Above all else, he looks uncertain. He's trying to hide it, but Foggy's known him for years; he's not entirely positive that Matt's even sure where he is. When he moves, his choice of direction feels completely arbitrary. It doesn't matter. His right leg collapses underneath him on the first step, pitching him into the mattress and onto the floor. He ends up on his knees next to the bed.

"Shit..." Foggy slides off the side of the mattress to join him on the floor. "Hey, are you okay?" he asks the crown of Matt's bowed head. Trying to duck around to get a look at his face, to figure out what he's supposed to do. Matt's conscious, at least. "Matt?"

"Something wrong with my legs."

"Yeah. Which is why you should be in bed."

"Not gonna care."

" _Who_? Who's not going to care?" Matt just shakes his head. "You and I are going to have a serious conversation later," Foggy tells him.

Matt doesn't respond. He slumps against the side of the bed, his eyes barely open. When he coughs, it rattles his entire body.

"Look… you trust me, right?" Foggy asks.

The answer is bleary but automatic. "Yes."

"Then believe me when I tell you that there's no one else here. No place you need to be. It's okay to rest. You _need_ to rest." He wonders how many ways he's going to have to say it before it has a chance of sinking in. "Please, Matt. Please just trust me, and try to get some sleep."

A few moments of frowning contemplation. Now a slow nod. "Okay," Matt agrees. He rests his head on the mattress, closes his eyes.

"Great," Foggy says. "But you'd probably sleep better if you were actually _in_ the bed."

"Okay," he repeats, not moving.

"Great," Foggy sighs. Matt's skin is warm and slippery when he puts a hand on his arm. "Come on, up."

Matt makes a small sound in the back of his throat that might be an acknowledgment, but he's heavy and not really helping. It's a good thing they don't have far to go. Foggy drags Matt up onto the bed; he flops there in an ungainly sprawl. A hand snakes out to fumble in the blankets, gets a fistful of the comforter. He pulls it over himself, shivering beneath it.

Foggy blows out a breath, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. Tries to convince himself that this is simply a cold, that Matt will be better in the morning. It rings hollow inside his head, but – short of another traumatic trip to the ER – there isn't much else he can do. He leaves the room to refill the water glass.

He returns to the low rumble of Matt's voice, too quiet for Foggy to make out what he's saying. Even standing beside the bed he finds it impossible to decipher the words. "Matt?" Foggy pokes his shoulder through the bedding. "You want any more water?"

His eyes are closed but a grin breaks over his face; he mutters something into the sheets.

"Yeah, I didn't get any of that," Foggy tells him. "I'm leaving the water here. Try to get some sleep. I'll be around if you want anything."

"S'okay, Dad," Matt mumbles. "Don't worry. You've got this guy."

"Fantastic." Matt rarely talks about his dad, but Foggy's always gotten the impression that they had a good relationship. He wonders if this is the same person Matt's so worried about disappointing. "Like I said, I'll be out in the living room. Just yell if you need something."

He's got no idea if this is getting through.

Foggy goes back out to the kitchen, grabs Matt's last beer from the fridge. He drops onto the couch cushions, wishing – not for the first time – that Matt had a TV. Instead he digs his phone out of his pocket. Opens one of his games while he sips at the beer.

He passes one level, fails several times at the next. The noises of the game weave through the irregular rhythm of Matt's muted coughing coming from the other room. His eyes are tired, stinging sore. Foggy finishes the beer, stands the bottle on the floor by the arm of the couch. Hopefully far enough out of the way that he's not going to knock it over later. He turns off the floor lamp, gets comfortable. Starts the level again.

At some point he dozes off, because suddenly he's opening his eyes in a dark bubble of amnesia. It only takes a few seconds to place himself in Matt's apartment, for the shadows to separate into familiar shapes. It takes a few seconds more to realize that one of the shapes is moving. Foggy switches on the lamp.

"Matt?" He tilts the shade to try and force more light in that direction. Still wearing only his sweatpants, Matt plods, head down, across the living room. "What're you doing?"

He doesn't answer; his pace feels determined despite its slow speed. Foggy gets off the couch, matches its tempo. "Go back to sleep, Fog," Matt murmurs to the floor. He keeps shuffling forward.

"While I'm thrilled that you know who I am, I thought I told you just to yell if you wanted something. Wait – where are you going?" He'd been assuming Matt was headed to the kitchen, but now he sees that his path is shifting toward the front door. "Matt, stop."

He does. But only because Foggy plants himself in front of him at the start of the entryway. He's breathing with difficulty, his chin on his chest. "Get out of the way," Matt rasps.

"Why?"

Matt sways on his feet. "They're fighting again. M'afraid he's gonna hurt her."

"What? Who's fighting?"

"Downstairs." He drags a forearm over his forehead, wiping at the sweat.

Foggy relaxes a tiny bit. Surely this is just another feverish hallucination. Matt's hearing might be better than his, but downstairs? It's got to simply be in his head. A bad dream.

"Move," Matt tells the floorboards. "I'll handle it."

He takes a step forward, but Foggy refuses to budge. "So many things wrong with that statement, my friend." Matt moves another stubborn step into Foggy's personal space. "What do you think you're going to do? Your negotiating skills are, I admit, well beyond mine on a good day. But we are nowhere near a good day here. You're barely dressed. And unless there's an argument about watermelons, I'm kind of doubting you're going to come out on top."

Matt lifts his head, his eyes exhausted slits. His brows pull together in a frown. "Huh? M'serious, Fog. Move." He sways again, has to take a step backward to find some stability.

Foggy grabs his arm. "Sorry? I didn't catch that. But I think you said, 'You're right, Foggy, as always. I'm going back to bed.'"

Matt starts coughing before he can respond; it leaves him wavering. His head falls forward to land on Foggy's collarbone. "Nobody else s'going to help her," he breathes into Foggy's shirt.

Foggy decides to change tactics. Maybe he can calm this fantasy down if he plays along. "Okay, how about you go back to bed, and I'll call 911. That'll work, right?"

A few moments of silence, a pool of damp warmth oozing across Foggy's chest. Finally Matt raises his head enough to nod; what Foggy can see of his face is all frustration. "Somebody has to help her," he says in a hoarse whisper. His eyes might be wet. It could just be a trick of the odd light.

"Sure. Of course we'll help her." Foggy gets him turned around, keeps a firm grip on Matt's arm. "The cops will take care of it."

It's a slow uncoordinated walk back to the bedroom, and when Matt stumbles his heel comes down hard on Foggy's bare toes. It hurts. A sound of reflexive protest escapes; Matt jerks the other way, struggling to redirect his feet. It yanks them off balance, sends them into a teetering dance. They almost go down, and they're both breathing roughly by the time they right themselves.

"Take that, Gravity," Foggy pants.

"Sorry," Matt grinds out beside him.

They start again, manage a few more feet before Matt stops. His head comes up; for a moment he's still, listening. Foggy's not expecting him to move, and when Matt pulls away he loses his grasp on the slick arm he's holding. Matt swings himself around, takes a couple of clunky steps back toward the door.

It's not hard to catch up with him. "Wrong way." His fingers latch back onto Matt's wrist.

Matt still wants to go the other direction: there's a short tugging contest for control of his arm. "Fog… let me…"

"No, man. Just… no. You're not going out there like this."

"Don't –" A wrench of his shoulder as he works to pull his arm loose.

Foggy refuses to let go. "Look I know you're in great shape and everything, but right now I'm betting I could take you. Please – _please_ – don't make me try."

Matt scowls. He makes a last agitated attempt to reclaim his arm. The force of the effort staggers him a step the other way; his knee buckles, taking them both to the floor as Foggy does his best to control Matt's unavoidable descent.

"This is becoming a seriously unsettling habit."

Matt moans, slumped against him. His wet hair tickles the side of Foggy's neck. "Don't feel well."

Foggy sighs. "Yeah, man, I know." There isn't much else he can say.

"Getting louder."

He can only hear the billboard, Matt's harsh breathing. "And I'm absolutely going to take care of it."

"I can't… Fog, I can't –"

"And it's okay. You don't have to," Foggy assures him, when the sentence chokes off into nothingness. "Everything's going to be fine. I promise." He wonders how long this particular delusion is going to persist. If Matt notices his placating tone.

Matt coughs, the jerky expectorant motion reverberating through both of them. When it stops, he's practically dead weight. Foggy has to put a hand on the floor to keep from tipping over.

"S'my phone?" Matt asks. His vocal cords sound shredded from all the irritation, the syllables scratching over each other. "Gonna call."

"I'll call," Foggy tells him. "Think you can get up? Because I'm really starting to wish you had carpet. A rug. Something. This floor is killing my knees."

"Yeah." It's not very convincing.

"Just so you know, I've got a very clever line about needing to keep kneepads in your apartment. But I think I'll save it until you can appreciate it. Are you ready to try this now?"

Matt doesn't answer, but he shifts enough that Foggy's no longer supporting all of his weight. Foggy stands, grabs his forearm and hauls him up to his feet. The billboard changes, washing the room in green. It casts new shadows on Matt's face, tints his skin another sickly shade.

Makes him appear a little too much like a corpse, in Foggy's opinion. A zombie.

He drags Matt's arm over his shoulders, because it looks like the guy's barely standing. Matt's shivering again, not bothering to open his eyes at all. His arm's a bar of heat across Foggy's neck; Foggy twists to try and free the strands of hair caught beneath it. His shirt feels wet where Matt presses against him.

They make it out of the glow of the billboard and into the bedroom without further incident, but also without any further conversation. It's always disconcerting when Matt goes nonverbal; no matter what else is going on, he generally makes an effort to play along, to participate in their usual back and forth. The rare times he doesn't wave like a bright flag.

Foggy remembers Matt walking up in a hospital room, disoriented and screaming. He blinks. Tries desperately to think about _anything_ else.

Matt drops onto the bed in a heap of jumbled limbs. Foggy convinces him to drink a little more water, debates sneaking out to the liquor store for medicine and maybe more beer. He doesn't think he should risk it. Matt probably won't be here when he returns. He can't read his watch, wonders what time it is. How many hours he's still got left to sleep.

"Aren't you leaving?" Matt asks out of nowhere through the dark.

"Huh? Why, you want me to go?"

"Out of town." He shifts on the bed, kicking the lump of comforter over the side of the mattress. It puddles on the floor by Foggy's feet. "S'nt that this weekend?"

Foggy picks up the blanket, piles it back on the end of the bed. "Isn't what this weekend?"

"Wedding," Matt mumbles.

Foggy runs a hand through his hair, smothering a groan. His tentative happiness that Matt seems already distracted from the drama of imaginary strangers just turned out to be amazingly short-lived. "I don't have to go yet," he finally says. "I'll be around."

"'Kay." Matt doesn't add anything else. Foggy stands there for a few moments, listening to the breath rattling up from his lungs.

Eventually he goes out to the living room, deciding that he might as well try and get some sleep. But he can't shake the echo of Matt in his head. _M'afraid he's gonna hurt her._ Foggy's fingers play with the phone in his pocket. Matt's a mess, sure. But he'd seemed surprisingly lucid in his insistence.

Foggy unlocks the front door, steps into the hall. A string of closed doors stare back at him. He can see his watch easily out here; it's after midnight. The entire floor sits in silence. Downstairs, Matt had said, but downstairs where? He can't really call the police to report a disturbance vaguely _somewhere_ in the entire building.

 _M'afraid he's gonna hurt her._ Foggy closes the door behind himself, wanders barefoot down to the elevator. He can't hear anything. Like _anything._ He could be the only person alive on this floor, as far as he can tell. He thinks about riding the elevator for a while, getting off on the other floors just to be sure.

It feels a little silly. But if someone's in trouble?

Now he thinks about watermelons and weddings and Matt maybe mistaking him for his dad, and he turns around to head back to Matt's apartment. The door opens to the sound of that obnoxious brutal coughing; Foggy cringes, locks the deadbolt with a click. He realizes he's expecting Matt to ask him where he's been only when he doesn't. That terrible choppy noise continues, unbroken by any words.

It's usually something he'd hear, though. It might be ridiculous to think Matt can pick up on things from downstairs, but definitely from across the apartment. Maybe he's simply making too much noise on his own. Foggy crosses the room and flops onto the couch with a yawn, wondering if he's doing the right thing not forcing him to go see somebody. In the morning, he's going to convince Matt to make an appointment with his doctor.

He's still working on his argument when he slips off into sleep.

A crash jolts him awake, its retrospective recognition twining through the muffled noises now coming from the other room. It sounds suspiciously like somebody's swearing, and it takes his blurry mind a second to connect it back to the bedroom and Matt. Not something he usually hears from his friend, and it only adds to his drowsy confusion. It's still dark outside. The floor lamp shines on, its shade still askew.

Foggy rolls himself off of the couch cushions, his heel bumping into the empty beer bottle as he totters to his feet. It wobbles, remains standing. He heads for the other room, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck in a futile effort to massage away the knots there. "Matt?"

"Careful." It's strained, a rough cardboard-over-sidewalk scrape. A warning that comes not from the bed but the bathroom; Matt emerges, a towel in his hand. "Broken glass."

He moves like a hunched old man; Foggy tracks him as he crosses the room. There are glass shards glistening in a spreading puddle by the bed. Matt simply drops the thick towel over the whole thing before collapsing onto the mattress.

He drags a hand over his face, blinks up at the ceiling. "I don't think I'm going to work tomorrow."

As he says this the alarm on Foggy's phone starts up, beeping from the living room where he'd left it. "Make that today," Foggy says. "But good call; you've got this whole Mister Burns meets Batman thing going on. What happened?"

Matt lifts his head. "What is that?"

His phone's on the floor by the bottle; he can see it peeking out from under the couch when he looks over his shoulder. "My alarm."

"It's annoying," Matt growls. His head falls back into the rumpled sheets.

"It is," Foggy agrees, going out to get the thing. "I think that's kind of the point." He returns with the silenced phone in his pocket. Lifts a corner of the towel to see what he can do about the mess.

"Leave it. I'll get it later."

"Or I can just deal with it now." Most of the glass is in large pieces, but there's water everywhere. Crouched down here, he can see a line of droplets trailing under the bed. A path made by one wet foot leading toward the bathroom. He mops it all up the best he can. "What happened?" he asks again, collecting the glass into the towel.

"Nothing. Wasn't paying attention."

A small dark smear on the terrycloth snags his notice. Foggy squints at it in the dim light, willing it to be something else. "Not paying attention enough to cut yourself?"

"Did I?" It's completely uninterested. A hand worms down his bent leg, fingers exploring the sole of his right foot. He winces. "Huh. Guess I did."

Foggy stands. "Let me see."

"It's fine. I'll take care of it."

He doesn't look like he's going anywhere. "So take care of it," Foggy says.

"Yeah." An attempt to clear his throat ends in coughing. "Give me a minute."

Foggy pulls out his phone, searching for his flashlight app. "It's the bottom of your foot, dude. Not the easiest place to reach properly without some serious stretching. Just let me look at."

He reaches for Matt's ankle, but Matt slides his leg away. "Fog, stop. I've got it. I'm getting up."

"But that's the beauty of _my_ plan. You don't have to get up. Let me look at it, see if I can tell if there's any glass in it."

"I can tell," Matt grits through his teeth as he shoves himself up in the bed.

"Uh-huh." Foggy sweeps the light across the floor, hoping to spot any stray slivers before Matt puts his feet down. "How about you make your guess and I'll make mine, and I can just check and we'll know for sure?"

"I've got it," Matt repeats. He limps a crooked line to the bathroom, walking only on his left foot and the toes of his right. When he closes the door, he takes most of the minimal light with him.

There's a lot more banging around in there than Foggy's happy about, and he'd swear he hears Matt curse again. He creeps his way across the bedroom, pausing outside the door. His hand's stretching toward the knob, but he hesitates. Matt had made it pretty obvious that he wants to be left alone.

All sounds from inside instantly stop. "Go home," comes a hoarse grumble. "I'll call you."

He pictures Matt in there, frozen like he is. Waiting to see what he'll do. Foggy knows without a doubt that Matt's hoping he'll walk away, so after a few moments of indecisiveness he does. He's nearly through the bedroom archway when the noises start up once more.

A few especially loud thuds and a clear obscenity, and Foggy decides that they're going to compromise. He'll leave Matt alone. But he's not going to leave. Not yet, anyway. He picks up the towel full of glass and carries it with him out to the kitchen. Sets it aside to be dealt with later. He's going to make pancakes, if he can find all the ingredients.

He gathers together what he needs and gets started. Foggy would never call himself a talented chef, but there's one or two things he's good at. Sandwiches, for sure. And pancakes. He'll make a bunch, see if he can get Matt to eat before he goes home.

He's pulling the first one out of the pan when Matt's heavy limp drags across the living room. Foggy looks back to see him tumble down onto the couch. He spoons more batter into the sizzling pan; he can hear Matt's harsh breathing from over here.

There's a long silence. "Pancakes?" Matt eventually asks in a sandpaper voice. "Why're you making pancakes?"

Foggy doesn't turn around. "Because pancakes are delicious. And I was hungry. Want some?"

"Not really."

"Come on. You know you love my pancakes." He stops, the spatula poised above the pan. "Did that sound dirty? Or is it just really early?"

"Yes," Matt says.

The sky out of the windows is brightening by fractions; every time Foggy glances that way, it looks a tiny bit lighter. The floor lamp shines on Matt's tousled hair, the only part of him Foggy can see at this angle. He adds another pancake to the plate.

"Have you been here all night?" Matt croaks from the couch.

"Yep."

"I, uh… I don't really remember."

"I am very much not surprised. You were pretty out of it."

A rustle of motion; Foggy checks back over his shoulder to see Matt's head half-twisted in his direction, his profile now visible over the cushions. His eyebrow an anxious arch. "What happened?"

If Matt doesn't remember, Foggy's not going to delve into it. He turns back to his cooking. "Nothing happened. You just kept asking about the wedding. Very repetitive, very boring."

"The wedding," Matt repeats. It sounds skeptical.

"Uh huh," Foggy responds cheerfully. In truth, he's feeling much better about things. Matt still sounds awful, but the fever seems to be gone for now. That has to count as progress. "For the record, I already went, and I had a good time. So you don't have to ask again."

"Got it." He slumps back into the cushions.

"My mom's expecting to see you at Christmas, by the way. I don't think you're getting out of it."

"Mm." Foggy can't tell if he's actually listening.

He gradually piles two plates high with pancakes, switches off the stove. Between the buildings outside the sky is all pink and blue, the view decorated with soft cotton candy colors. He carries the food to the couch; Matt's got his eyes closed, his arms wrapped around his bare torso. His nose twitches when Foggy sets the plate down on the cushion beside him.

Foggy settles onto the other end of the couch, taking note of the thin strip of white gauze wrapping up from Matt's right heel around his ankle. He realizes Matt hadn't ever actually specified whether or not he thought there was glass in there. Foggy spears a bite of his pancakes, staring at the new bandaging.

"How's your foot?" he finally asks, around a mouthful of food.

"Fine."

"What's with the mummy look?"

Matt shrugs. "Had to get the glass out. Opened it up a little."

Foggy cringes, swallows with difficulty. Matt blinks his eyes open, running a hand through his hair to scratch at his scalp. He takes a breath and pushes himself off of the couch. The plate dips dangerously beside him as his weight shifts the cushions; Foggy reaches out to save it.

Matt doesn't seem to notice or care. He shuffles unevenly into the kitchen.

Foggy's appetite returns quickly enough – because _pancakes_ – and he continues eating as he watches his friend moving around. Matt fills a glass with water, leaning against the counter on one leg to drink it. He refills it before crossing slowly back to the couch.

Foggy picks up the plate before he drops onto the cushions. Matt bends to set the glass on the floor by his feet, and it clinks against the beer bottle on the way down. He plays his fingers over the long neck to see what he'd hit. Dismisses it as soon as it's identified, slouching back into the couch. The lamp highlights the shadow smudges under his eyes.

"Don't you have to go to work?" he asks after a while.

"I dunno. I was thinking about skipping it. I might be coming down with something. Probably the same thing my best friend has."

Matt groans. "We're gonna get fired."

"So we'll start our own firm. Nelson and Murdock."

"Fog..."

"Murdock and Nelson?"

"Just give me the pancakes," Matt grumbles, stretching out a hand.

He pokes at his food more than he eats it, but he does take a few actual bites. Foggy counts it as a win, even if after a minute or two Matt's basically just chopping the whole thing into a fluffy mush with his fork. He finishes what's on his own plate under the glow of the rising sun, feeling more content than he has in hours. Matt's eating food, making intelligent conversation; he's going to take the day off and get some well-deserved sleep. Life could be worse.

They sit for a while in the quiet of dawn, and Foggy debates getting up to make more pancakes. Matt's still half-heartedly stabbing away at his, like a kid pretending to eat until he's finally released from the table. Foggy decides to help them both out. "You done with that?"

"Yeah." He leaves his fork on the plate; Foggy picks the plate up and adds it to his own as Matt relaxes into the cushions. "Thanks, Fog," he says. "For sticking around."

"Nelson and Murdock, man." Foggy starts in on Matt's pancakes with a smile. "We are going to be _awesome_."


End file.
